


The Fury Of The Woman Scorned (1878)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [19]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Revenge, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 00:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Case 12: Danger is always at the shoulder of every copper  – but when Death calls for one of the brave men at Sergeant Henriksen's station, the Grim Reaper leaves behind a tell-tale calling-card.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case where a cap was found beside a dead policeman'.

Holmes and I were to spend five years at Cramer Street, where Miss Letitia Hellingly was our landlady. She was quiet enough, and had the most definite advantage of not being her overbearing (in every sense) sister, Mrs. Evadne Hall. The way that the latter looked at my poor friend was positively predatory, and quite unbecoming even of her.

Cramer Street is a north-south thoroughfare that runs parallel to Marylebone High Street, and is really just a connecting road between Moxon Street in the north and St. Vincent Street in the south. Our road was barely the length of a school athletics track, and we were fortunate enough to live towards the northern end, from where it was but a short walk to Paddington Street Gardens (the other side of which was Dorset Street, of which I shall tell later). Sir Christopher Wren may have been frustrated in his plans to rebuild London as a city of open boulevards after the Great Fire two centuries before, but there were and still are many green areas to enjoy. It was also, as I have said, reasonably close to my practice, where I was slowly increasing both my workload and standing.

Unusually for London, the houses along our road still had names, and we lived in what was euphemistically called 'Laurel Cottage', even though it was as much of a town house as our more famous residence in Baker Street. I can name the place because, sad to say, a fire ravaged the buildings along the west side of the road where our house was in 1910, and they were all subsequently condemned and pulled down. Rather oddly in view of the city's still rising population, the site has yet (1936) to be rebuilt. 

It was during our time there that the “Strand” magazine first took an interest in my scribblings, and I was able to present the wonders of my genius friend's deductive powers to the rest of the world. Not, I might add, without some hiccups along the way; he was at first cool towards my efforts, but soon came to accept them. Even though we knew from the start that our stay in this place would be limited to half a decade, I still felt happy there.

+~+~+

It would have been totally cynical of me to comment that things had to be serious when our friend Sergeant Henriksen called round on a day when there was not cake to be had. So I did not say it.

Holmes glared at me nonetheless. Honestly!

“We've lost young Simpkins”, our friend said mournfully.

I had no idea who he was talking about, but of course Holmes knew.

“Lost him?” he asked sharply. “How?”

“He was investigating a possible break-in down Wellstream Terrace, and the blackguard must have still been there. He shot him, point blank range. Boy didn't stand a chance. And he was just married, with his first child on the way.”

Holmes must have caught my blankness, because he explained.

“Percival Simpkins was one of the brightest young constables at the station”, he said. “A real credit to the service.”

He turned back to our friend.

“So who is the other woman?”

I thought for a moment that Henriksen was going to need my professional services, as he looked set to have a seizure. I handed him a hastily-poured whisky, and he drank it down in one shot before staring in shock at Holmes.

“How the blazes did you know that?” he demanded. “Please God, don't tell me those vermin in the press have gotten hold of the story already? The poor boy isn't even cold yet!”

“Elementary”, Holmes said calmly. “Were this to be a regular case, the killing of one of your own men would demand the full focus of the whole station, as you rightly sought to avenge your lost colleague. Yet you have come to us, outsiders in this matter. Therefore there must be a certain element in the case which makes discretion at the very least desirable, since even policemen invariably gossip, and you would not want his poor widow to have any further troubles. Besides, given the young man's sterling character, something that would besmirch that character is clearly implied.”

Henriksen calmed down a little, and nodded.

“It is complicated”, he admitted. “You see, Simpkins was patrolling right down on the eastern edge of our patch. Wellstream Terrace, although it is in St. Pancras, is a very well-to-do new development that is on Sergeant Wright's patch next door, and we.....uh.... we do not always get on.”

I frowned. Much as I admired some of the work our police service did, I thought this territorial attitude by some policemen did them no favours at all. On the other hand, I had met Sergeant Matthew Wright on one occasion myself, and I doubted anyone could 'get on' with him. His wife had, I had previously been told, left him due to his 'unreasonable behaviour', and frankly I had not been the least bit surprised.

“So he was killed on someone else's patch”, Holmes mused. “And I am sure that the chances of Sergeant Wright co-operating at all in the matter will be minimal. That makes things harder, but not impossible. Tell me what you know.”

The Dutchman sat back. 

“Simpkins went on patrol at six yesterday morning”, he said. “At around half-past nine he was working Candlemas Drive when he must have heard a commotion in the neighbouring street, Wellstream Terrace. There is a small cut-through alleyway between the two, and he went down that.”

“How do you know this?” Holmes asked.

“Simpkins was found dead at number thirty-three”, the policeman said. “Mr. Nicholas Beauclerc at number thirty-one was out in his garden, and saw Simpkins emerge from the alleyway, then run up to the house. He did not hear anything from the house, but since the poor boy was found round the back, that is not that surprising. Simpkins tried the front door first, but that was a solid piece of oak – I've been there – so he tried round the back. He must have gotten into the house and then been shot.”

“What did Mr. Beauclerc do when he heard the shot?” I asked.

“He says that he did not hear anything even then”, the policeman said. “He is a bit hard of hearing, he said; I checked that with his doctor, but it turned out to be true. However, when he did not see the boy emerge at all, he became concerned. He went out the back and used the back-alleyway that slices across the cut-through, and emerges in Kent House Road. He found one of Wright's men there, and they went back to the house. Too late for poor Simpkins, but I suppose I can see why he wanted to be careful.”

“I still find it hard to believe that even someone hard of hearing would not hear something as loud as a gunshot”, I said.

“I can explain that”, Henriksen said, “There was a cap found next to the body, and a bullet-hole in it. The killer must have shot through the cap to muffle the sound; there were no marks around the wound, like you get when the shot is done close in.”

Holmes nodded.

“So”, he said heavily. “Who is the shady lady who lives at number thirty-three?”

“A Miss Catriona Harman”, the policeman said sourly, “and it would be stretching things to call her a lady. Wright interviewed her himself, and one of his constables told me it was the first time he had ever seen his boss sweat! Unfortunately Mr. Beauclerc saw her leaving for her work half an hour before it all went down, and he stayed in his garden all that time.”

I thought to myself that the shady lady could easily have slipped back in down the same alley that the policeman used, although I could see no motive on her part. Holmes shook his head for some reason.

“You have neglected to mention the name of the man that you have hold on for this crime, Henriksen”, he said mildly.

The policeman sighed heavily.

“Any chance you can use those freakish super-human powers of yours to put your finger on the guilty party?” he asked.

“Who have you arrested?” I asked.

“Not arrested, just taken in for questioning”, he said. “A Mr. Frederick Quimby, the fellow who lives on the other side, number thirty-five. He is a picture-framer and works in a shop off the Strand, but he was off with the flu. Yes, we checked with his doctor, but that was true. Mr. Beauclerc said that he thought that Mr. Quimby had a thing for Miss Harman, although he does not not know if those feelings were requited.”

“Did Mr. Quimby not hear the shot?” I asked.

“No”, Henriksen said, “but he also does a little photography work, and has a dark room in his cellar. He claims that he was down there, and the place does have a double door to prevent anyone from blundering in and ruining his work."

“Does the garrulous Mr. Beauclerc have any evidence for his suspicions of his neighbours?” Holmes asked.

“Not much”, the policeman admitted. “Mr. Beauclerc – a right woman when it comes to spying on the neighbours, though the trouble and strife would clock me one for saying as much - says he is sure he saw him enter the house through the back door on at least one occasion. He, uh, was putting out the rubbish and just happened to see him.”

It was interesting to see the Dutchman blush under Holmes' azure gaze.

“Hmm”, Holmes said slowly. “Tell me, what do Miss Harman and Mr. Beauclerc do for a living?”

“She is a dressmaker, and works for some high-end fashion store in the West End”, the policeman said. “Unfortunately she operates under some sort of freelance set-up; she goes round to a list of clients each day, and her first was some batty old dear over Putney way who was sure that she arrived with the Prince of Wales in tow! As for him, he works on the railways, as a guard. He was off that day because he had worked the previous Sunday.”

“I would like to see that cap”, Holmes said. “Unfortunately I suppose that it is currently in Sergeant Wright's station, and he would not take kindly to a consulting detective taking an interest in his case.”

“I can take you to see it, if you think it would help”, Henriksen offered. “What do you think, sir?”

“I fear that someone has been very clever”, Holmes said. “But even the cleverest people slip up from time to time. We can but hope. Lead on, Henriksen.”

+~+~+

Sergeant Matthew Wright would, just as I had expected, have no truck with a consulting detective examining what he regarded as His evidence. But he could not object to Henriksen examining it, and Holmes just happening to stand opposite him when he did so, although I heard several disapproving tuts. I also caught at least two of the sergeant's constables smirking at their superior's very obvious displeasure.

The cap was, I thought, unremarkable. It was of the cheap sort that are commonly available, and its only distinguishing feature seemed the prominent bullet-hole in it. Holmes only asked one question whilst examining it, and Henriksen looked at him strangely when he questioned whether any of the three people involved owned a cat (apparently only Mr. Quimby did). I thought the whole exercise pointless and said as much to my friend, who smiled at me.

“On the contrary”, he said. “That small and rather cheap item of clothing told me two very important things about the case.”

We were all squashed into a carriage riding back to Henriksen's station, so we both turned to stare at him.

“What things?” Henriksen asked.

“Who committed the crime, and who did not commit the crime”, Holmes said simply. “But a court will need more proof, especially as it may well be a hanging affair.”

“Was Simpkins seeing this woman?” the policeman demanded.

“He was not. Which reminds me, Henriksen; will Simpkins' service qualify his poor widow for a pension? I know that officers have to serve for some time before that can happen.”

Our friend's face fell. Clearly he had not thought of that.

“Never mind”, Holmes said comfortingly. “We shall think of something.”

+~+~+

We dropped Henriksen off at his station, and headed back to Cramer Street. We stopped at the post office near the house, where Holmes immediately fired off several telegrams. I wondered what he was up to, but I knew (hoped) that he would tell me in the fullness of time.

Three days passed, and several more telegrams came and went, until apparently it was time for action. I expected us to go and collect Henriksen first, but Holmes directed the driver straight to Wellstream Terrace.

“I am going to do something a little unethical to bring about justice in this matter”, he said seriously. “And I would rather that our Dutch friend were not there to see me do it, otherwise he himself may have questions to answer.”

We reached our destination, and Holmes paid the cabbie. Unusually, several of the houses in the terrace had names as well as numbers, and number thirty-three was “Bonnybrae”. A policeman was stationed outside, and eyed us suspiciously.

“Do not worry, constable”, Holmes said amiably. “Our business is with number thirty-one or, as I see it is called, 'Buffers'.”

I thought, not for the first time, that some people should not be allowed to choose names for their houses. Holmes grinned at my reaction, and led the way up the path to knock at the front door. It was opened by a man whom was presumably the local busyb.... Mr. Nicholas Beauclerc, who peered at us curiously.”

“I am not buying anything”, he said loftily. “Go away.”

“We are here about the murder next door”, Holmes said quietly.

The man went pale, but ushered us in. 

“What do you want?” he asked, once we were inside.

“I would rather talk about this seated, if you do not mind”, Holmes said amiably. “After all, matters of murder are not the sort of thing to discuss in the hallway. Unless you would like me to call that nice constable in to 'help'?”

The man looked horrified, but led us into his main room. He did not offer us any drinks, and just stared at us.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Let us just say that we are detectives”, Holmes smiled, “and that we are here for your welfare.”

“What do you mean?” the man demanded. Holmes sighed.

“We are investigating a certain character who, if they run true to form, will shortly be committing their second murder”, Holmes said, as calmly as if he was discussing the weather. “Of your good self.”

The man started.

“I do not know what you are talking about”, he said, although I noted that he looked worried. Holmes smiled knowingly.

“Miss Catriona Harman”, he said. “One of those women who find it not just incomprehensible that a man will refuse their advances, but utterly unforgivable. She made a play for the affections of a humble London constable, and was amazed that she was rejected on the frankly unacceptable grounds that he was a married man. She was not to be shunned like that, and plotted a vicious revenge. Involving you.”

The man swallowed hard.

“She bought a house in a road that was ideally situated for two reasons”, Holmes continued. “First, it was next to where her target patrolled, but over in a neighbouring station's patch. The woman was smart enough to know how parochial London's constabulary are, and that a crime committed in such a location would have any investigation hindered by the inevitable and unnecessary 'turf war'. And second, she has no intention of running any risk to her own neck in the matter. She intends to employ someone else to do the murder. You.”

I stared in astonishment.

“She plays on the affections of both her neighbours, and decides that you, Mr. Beauclerc, would be the more suitable. Before you know it, you are writing your will to leave all your money to her, and lending more than a sympathetic ear when she tells you the horrendous tale of a former suitor of hers who has joined the Metropolitan Police, and is using his new job to harass her. Finally she has you round one day when she claims that he tried to molest her, and she managed to knock him out.”

The man looked set to faint.

“Do you have access to her house?” Holmes asked brusquely.

“Yes”, he said. “Not the front door – she would not let me have the key until we were married – but there is a connecting door, to which we both have a key. I have a table on my side of it, but I can move it, and I know that her side is clear.”

“Do so”, Holmes commanded. 

The man moved faster than I would have thought possible, and the door was open for us in barely a minute.

“Now”, Holmes said gravely, “you will come with us into the house. I need to search for certain things therein. You will sit on a chair and say nothing. Once I am done, we will talk. Do you understand?”

I do not think that I have ever seen a man so frightened in my entire life. He was physically trembling as he followed us into the house, and Holmes set about his work, He only stopped to ask one question, and once again it was a strange one, although I would later see its relevance.

“Which railway company employs you?”

The man looked horrified, clearly suspecting some sort of trap in Holmes' words, but eventually he managed an answer.

“The Great Western, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Holmes resumed his searching.

+~+~+

We were back in “Buffers”. Holmes had, rather oddly I thought, written a short note and left it folded up on a table in “Bonnybrae” before leaving, and now he faced a man who, once more, looked deathly pale.

“I have but one question for you”, Holmes said. “When Miss Harman told you to, did you shoot Constable Simpkins?”

The man shook his head.

“Words, please!” Holmes growled.

“No, sir! She called me a coward and said that I was nothing to her for refusing 'that small service', as she put it, but I could not. I swear!”

“It is fortunate for you that, in this instance, I know that you speak the truth”, Holmes said. “Bad as you have been, you drew back at the last, and that must count for something. Here.”

He handed the man a card.

“What is this, sir?” he asked.

“You will now do the following”, Holmes said. “You will spend the next hour packing all of your possessions into what you can carry, and you will then take the deeds of your house and go to that address, where you must ask for a 'Mr. Golightly'. He offers a service whereby he will advance cash for the deeds of your house – not of course their full value, but enough to set you up in the New World, to which you will leave on the next ship. I know that two are sailing this evening, and bearing in mind your neighbour will not be best pleased at your departure, I strongly suggest that you are on the first one.”

“But sir....”

“Alternatively”, Holmes said, “you could remain here and face some very difficult questions from the police, a long time in gaol for your role in the murder of a London constable – something upon which our judges rightly frown – and the absolute certainty that your employers in Paddington will be terminating your employment the moment that they hear of your activities and choice of 'partner'. I am a fair man, sir, and because you were honest with me and you did not pull that trigger, you shall have that choice. But do not test my patience much further, or....”

The man was already fled upstairs, grabbing a large handbag off the side as he went.

+~+~+

“How could you know that he did not kill Simpkins?” I asked as we drove back to Cramer Street. 

“Because Miss Harman made every effort to implicate him in the crime”, he said. “Three things gave her away, two of which concerned that cap.”

“I still do not see what you saw in that”, I grumbled. “It looked to me just like an old cap.”

“It was perhaps a little unfair of me to word it the way I did”, he conceded. “Let me elaborate. It was one thing that was on the cap, and one that was not.”

“Now I am even more at sea!” I complained. “You do that deliberately!”

He smiled but, I noted, did not deny it.

“What was missing was cat hair”, he said. “It is not only one of the most adhesive things known to man, but we know that as a picture-framer, Mr. Quimby must work with glue. Yet although the cap was clearly much worn, it bore no traces of ever having been in a house where there was a cat. Doubtless Miss Harman purchased it second-hand somewhere or other.”

“What was the other thing?” I asked.

“The soot.”

“Ah”, I said. “But Mr. Beauclerc works on the railways. That would have been expected.”

“True”, Holmes said, “except that he works on the Great Western Railway, which improves the performances of its locomotive stable by using Welsh coal. That leads to a much finer soot particle, easily detectable by someone looking for it. Miss Harman doubtless applied some soot from the fireplace, thinking that she would implicate Mr. Beauclerc and possibly be rid of him that way. It would, after all, be the word of a poor, defenceless woman against a man who, she would doubtless have claimed, had been pestering her, and who killed a rival for her affections. That and the evidence would quite probably have been enough for poor, foolish Mr. Beauclerc to hang.”

“The demon!” I growled. 

+~+~+

The following evening, Holmes passed me the late edition of the “Times” in which he had ringed a certain small article.

“'Second death at Wellstream Terrace'”, I read. “'A Miss Catriona Harman was found dead in her house, the same edifice in which a London policeman recently met an untimely demise. On this occasion, however, there are no suspicious circumstances'.”

I put the paper down.

“Suicide?” I asked. He nodded.

“Inevitably.”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“I was exceptionally fortunate that my criminal friend, Mr. Khrushnic, has a cousin who is married to a London policeman”, he said. “I called on him the other day – I did not wish to make you worry over his involvement – and explained matters, and he arranged for one of his employees to call on Miss Harman and 'explain' matters to her. I did leave her a note warning her of the approaching danger, but apparently she did not take my warning. She then had no choice but to take that of a man whom she doubtless knew could have her killed before she could reach the front gate.”

I was silent. I did not approve of such methods, but I could see that unless this woman was stopped, there might well be more deaths.

“Inspector MacDonald has told Henriksen that the service wished to reward me for my help in this matter”, Holmes said. I appreciated the slight change of subject.

“That would be fair”, I conceded. He shook his head.

“No”, he said. “I asked instead that they use the reward money to honour Mrs. Simpkins' rights as a widow, despite her husband's lack of qualifying service. And I shall be pressing for the service as a whole to make better provision for those who support our brave men.”

I smiled at his passionate speech. I was quiet proud of him, really.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Poor Percival Simpkins left an unexpected legacy – eight months after his demise, his widow gave birth to a healthy baby boy, whom she called Lancelot (her late husband's choice, apparently). The dead man's colleagues at the station raised a considerable sum for her extra expenses, which Holmes matched from his own pocket. I was so proud of my friend for that.

+~+~+

In our next and very strange adventure, a woman does not powder her nose.


End file.
